Behind Closed Doors
by The Duchessina
Summary: Take your pick, Jack Force. Make your choice. You've got one chance: Don't screw it up. Mimi and Jack. Jack and Schuyler. Oneshot.


**A/N: Another Mimi fic. A little sadder, a little darker than the last one. But I just love her character so much. **

**Slight** _Revelations _**spoilers, because I'm only about halfway through. (I know it's been out for months, but it's the holidays!)**

**So read and enjoy!**

**

* * *

**

Behind Closed Doors

He's standing at the threshold.

Literally.

And as she studies her lover lounging in her doorway, she supposes that he might be at a threshold figuratively too. This is the crossroads. Take your pick, Jack Force. Make your choice. You've got one chance: Don't screw it up.

"Do you want something?" she demands, putting as much venom and bitterness into the words as she can muster.

He crosses into her bedroom, surveying the assorted accessories. He fingers a glass figurine at her dresser. He gave it to her on their tenth birthday. They both remember that day.

"You. Always you," he answers finally, his voice husky and low.

Her eyes flutter close for a moment before snapping back open. He's seen her slight shudder of pleasure at the sound of his voice, and he knows exactly how to manipulate her. And she knows he knows.

"Not always," she whispers.

Suddenly his hands on hers, and his mouth close to her own—_God, so close, too close, damn it, just kiss me!_

"You know I'll always come back to you," he murmurs tenderly. It's these moments that she can pretend he loves her like he did for the past centuries. She can fool herself—but only in these moments.

And then they leave, abandoning her to reality.

She growls in response.

His fingers slide into her long blond hair, his palms cups her cheek, and she can smell him—his aftershave is as familiar as her own perfume—as he presses his lips onto hers.

Bliss. Pure, simple, unadulterated bliss. He was her heaven, and her sanctuary, and if she had any choice in the matter, she would never leave the safety of his arms. Her newly manicured nails dig into his back, and his teeth bite down on her skin, almost breaking it. It's how it is with them—animalistic, passionate. There is no stopping it once is has begun.

He pushes her, and the back of her knees hit the bed. And as they become lost in each other, as she retraces the curve and dip of every inch of skin, she hears the voice in the back of her mind telling her, warning her.

_He is thinking of Schuyler. _

_

* * *

_

He's left.

He always leaves after they make love—_keep calling it that and maybe someday you'll believe it_—and she knows where he's gone.

She wonders whether, after he's taken her, he makes love with the Van Alen girl. She wonders if the other girl knows what he does.

She finds she can't make herself care. Instead, she lays in her bed—_our bed_—and feels every inch of her own body. The satin sheets, normally so soft and comforting, graze against her bare skin, making her already sensitive body cringe. She presses her face into her pillow and prays for sleep.

She's really praying for release.

Her stomach clenches, curling her body into a ball without her consent. Pain ripples through her back, but she chooses to ignore it. Her hands make fists, and she feels the bite of her nails in her flesh. She's done this enough times to picture the crescent moons that will appear on her palms.

"God, I need a drink."

* * *

"Damnit, Mimi, I want you," groans the man beside her. She can't remember his name, and she doesn't care to. She can see the marks on his neck—the two puncture marks that makes him hers.

All she can think about is Jack, but she moans because that's what her familiar excepts of her. She grinds her body against his, and she cries out when his mouth descends on her neck. The tension between them is intoxicating; it's almost as good as Jack.

But not quite.

She's learning—slowly, very slowly—that nothing can ever compare to him.

* * *

She drowns her sorrows in drinks. Both kinds. The thick red blood of humans, and the rich red wine.

"Mimi, what do you want?"

He's here, again, in her bedroom, in her heart.

"You," she replies, honesty ringing in her tone. "Always you."

This time, she's drunk; he can smell the wine on her breath.

He doesn't care.

Neither does she.


End file.
